BACK WHERE THE STREETS HAVE NO NAME

Coming back was scary but went very smootly. Despite what I expected, my house did not get burgled, water and electricity came back pretty quickly and I easily got back into my African everyday life. One thing I did not expect though: a week of official mourning à la camerounaise.

The week started with the visit of my 10 colleagues on the evening I arrived. The principal made an opening and a closing speech so I had to make one myself, thanking everybody for their support and telling them about the journey and the funeral. We all prayed, ate, drank and chatted. I was asked if had pictures of the funeral and if I had brought back watermelons and computers with me. They were appalled when I mentioned chocolate and said they were no children.

Friends, neighbours, colleagues' wives, students and random men came to visit me in the following evenings. Apart from the visits of some "random and dodgy men", it was very pleasant. So much sympathy from people I hardly know touched me and made me feel most welcomed back in Mokolo.

Comments

[mummy]

quel accueil et quelle tradition . moi, je n'ai eu qu'une visite de deuil de ma copine Genevieve ;c'est parcequ'elle a 80 ans environ et qu'elle connait encore ces usages là.
MUTTI